Baby Makes Three
by Ione
Summary: Molly is taking John and Mary's daughter for the weekend, and Sherlock is offended. Surely, despite having no direct experience with children himself, he's the superior choice? A pre-Sherlolly fluff fix with babysitting fun! ONESHOT


Baby Makes Three

A gift fic for kanshisha-akira

"I fail to comprehend why you didn't ask me first. Infant care is an extremely easy endeavor; once crying begins, it's clear that there are only three possible explanations for it. First—"

"Sherlock," John huffed, grabbing his jacket and missing the sleeve on the first two tries, "We didn't want to bother you. And Molly, well…she's just got a lot more hands'-on experience with children than you. All those nieces and nephews."

"Whereas I am bereft of breeding relatives," he replied, "True, I suppose there is a slight advantage in Molly's family having contributed to the overpopulation of the planet that will lead to our eventual extinction. She has," he sneered the next two words, "_hands'-on_ experience. What a dismal buzzword."

"It's not a buzzword, it's an accurate description of the kind of experience that some people," and John jerked his head towards Mary, packing the cooler in the kitchen, "want."

"And yet Mrs. Watson should know better than anyone the kind of capability theoretical knowledge can bring. She had no hands'-on experience when it comes to managing a husband, but—despite your slightly excessive post-marriage weight gain—she seems to have done well by you."

"Slightly—no, no, it's not even worth it. Sherlock, if you wanna go help Molly this weekend, I'm sure we'd all appreciate it. Myself most of all."

He had already started for the door. "Because you realize that my research into the subject could help your child develop skills that her education has clearly left undeveloped?" he called over his shoulder.

"Sherlock, she's two. And no, that's not the reason."

"Well, _what _then?" The door slammed behind, missing the hem of his coat by inches.

John sighed in the sudden silence of the flat. "So you'll be out of our hair," he mumbled.

Mary slipped her arms around him and dug her chin into his shoulder. "It's like having two of them, innit?" she said, kissing his neck.

()()()

Molly opened the door on his second knock.

"Hi," she said, the lines around her mouth deepening with the taut smile she usually gave him these days. "John rang round; said you'd be coming. Come on in."

Smell often told Sherlock as much about a place as sight, and he could not have doubted the presence of a small child in that one bedroom flat after a single whiff of it.

Cheap plastic and varnished woods—the child's toys.

Mashed carrots, pureed peas, and hot dogs—the child's lunch.

Finally dried spittle and the smell of an open sewer—the child itself.

"You've broken up with Arnold," was all he said. "It's obvious; no single man would tolerate living in this environment for very long. Do you bother cleaning after your parade of breeding relatives drops their children off or are you planning on baby-proofing the whole place and opening a daycare facility?"

"Penny for the clever detective," Molly sighed, leading the way into the living room. "For a prize, would you like the squishy squid," she snatched the plush toy away from the edge of her aquarium, "or the cuddly monkey?"

As the monkey in question was currently trapped beneath the napping body of Sherlock's honorary niece, Catherine—called "Kitty" in concession to Mary's manic love for cats—he said, "I require no prizes for what is a basic deduction. Unless you'd care to express your admiration for my craft."

"Hardly craft," Molly scoffed, smiling wider, "since you forgot a key component in your brilliant deduction."

He would not allow it to be true. But his pride got the better of him. "And that is?"

"Arnold was the last one. I'm going out with Edgar, now," she tugged at his coat and he let her take it from him and walk beyond him to the coat rack in the entryway, "And he loves children."

It did not matter. Molly's relationships burned quick and hot, and they burned out often. She would be single again in a matter of months. Indeed, since he detected no signs of a man's permanent presence in her flat, they couldn't be that serious at all.

However, if he loved children...and Molly did too…

He looked at Kitty's drooling face and shuddered. Surely the world didn't require _more _such creatures? Especially ones made by Molly and…_any_ man unfortunate enough to be called Edgar.

The thought was unsettling. A man named Edgar was not designed to procreate; since Molly Hooper was, their relationship could not endure.

Having come a conclusion on the matter, however unsatisfactory, Sherlock settled himself cross-legged on the battered shag rug and started playing with the wide bricks that Kitty always traveled with. John insisted—with puffed-chest pride—that his daughter's fondness for assembling these gaudy things was proof she'd be a great architect one day, and nothing Sherlock said to the contrary could dissuade him.

Although, if the girl had made the quite credible model of the Tower Bridge that sat to one side of the sofa, perhaps he might not be quite as foolishly optimistic as Sherlock thought. He scooped up the model and eyed it. It was impressively accurate, even down to the four spires at the corner of each tower.

"That's mine," Molly sat opposite him, smoothing Kitty's wispy blonde hair out of the corner of her mouth, "Just something I was messing around with."

"It's very good," he told her, "You managed to depict it well in such a crude medium."

"Go on, then," Molly scooped a handful of bricks towards him, "one up me. I know you're dying to."

"I came to help you care for the child, not indulge in pointless competition."

Molly scratched her nose, but he saw her smirking behind her hand. "You're right," she nodded, "it would be pointless. I'd win, after all."

"I—" Molly was teasing him, but there was a glint of determination in her eyes that he'd come to recognize. Moreover the entire attitude of her head and body assured him that she was ready for a fight. "I do not indulge in childish games."

Now she laughed openly. "Yes, you do. You do all the time. I think you're _scared_," she sang the last word; sweetly, but with steel beneath it."

"Play, Uncle Sherly, play!" Kitty had roused just enough to add her thoughts.

"No."

"Aww," Molly leaned towards Kitty and cooed, "He's just scared. Uncle Sherly's a tall, skinny scaredy-cat with silly fluffy hair—"

"Very well!" he ruffled the hair in question. "What are the stakes?"


End file.
